


Closedown

by GiGiS89



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, SPN Cinema Genre Challenge, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 07:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12744198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiGiS89/pseuds/GiGiS89
Summary: Dean is an old hat at doing what needs to be done to protect Sam. It used to be habit, something he did because his father had told him it was his job, ever since the shtriga it’s become a compulsion. He was careless and it almost cost Sam his life. Dean can’t afford to ever make that mistake again. He has to be better, smarter than the monsters.





	Closedown

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Cure song of the same name. Heartfelt thanks go out to jdl71 for her beta. spn_cinema entry inspired by Goodnight, Mommy.

Dean watches the Impala travel down the long, dirt driveway until it disappears behind the trees bordering the property they are currently residing on. He sighs, letting the heavy curtain fall into place as he moves away from the bedroom window and turns to his little brother.

Sam looks up at Dean from where he lays on the bottom bunk reading. He widens his eyes, silently questioning Dean.

“Yeah, Sammy. “ Dean nods. “He’s gone.”

Sammy tips his head to the side, another silent question.

“A few days he said.” Dean snorts and shakes his head. “Yeah, right.”

Sam rolls his eyes and goes back to his book.

“What you reading there, Sammy?”  
Sam tips the book up so Dean can see the title, _Robinson Crusoe_.

“Where’d you find that?”

Sam points towards the bedroom door.

“Oh, yeah. I saw there was a library.” Dean abandons the window and climbs into the bottom bunk, forcing Sam to scoot closer to the wall. “Read to me?”

Sam may only be six years old, but he is the smartest kid Dean’s ever met. Smarter than him certainly. Sam’s something special and the most special thing about Dean is being his brother.

Sam grins, adjusts the light clamped to the bedpost and begins reading.

 

Dean waits patiently, for what feels like hours, until Sam falls asleep. Sam seems to sleep even less than Dean does most days. It makes it hard to do what he needs to do. Sam feels safe here; Dean doesn’t want to do anything to change that. It’s already bad enough Sam knows what’s out there in the dark. Yeah, Sam knows all too well. Knows things no six year old should know. The familiar flash burn of guilt flushes through Dean, as the memory of just how close Dean came to getting Sam killed in Wisconsin rears its ugly head. He’d been so stupid, so selfish. Dean messed up that night. But he won’t ever again, not after nearly losing his brother.

Dean drapes the bed sheet carefully over Sammy then exits the room quietly.  

 

Dean is an old hat at doing what needs to be done to protect Sam. It used to be habit, something he did because his father had told him it was his job to do, ever since the shtriga it’s become a compulsion. He was careless and it almost cost Sam his life. Dean can’t afford to ever make that mistake again. He has to be better, smarter than the monsters.

 

Dean begins his systematic check of the house in the kitchen. He checks the large window over the sink and the side door in the kitchen then ambles into the living room, lamenting how much easier this would be if this was like this place was like the crappy motel rooms they usually stay in (with only one, big window to worry about) or even like Pastor Jim’s cabin (with its tiny windows that are too swollen shut to open). This place isn’t anything like that. It’s nothing like anywhere they’ve ever stayed. It’s clean and new; it reminds Dean of the fancy offices he’s seen on television. Everything inside it looks expensive and easily breakable and it’s big, with two floors and not just one window, but dozens of them. In the living room, there is even a glass wall that looks out into the back yard. Dean shakes his head and sighs, as he hefts the heavy bag of salt onto his hip, determined to get the salting done as quickly as possible, knowing he won’t be able to sleep until he’s it’s done.

 

Dean ensures the windows are all lined with salt and locked. Securing the house takes him a lot longer than it normally does. He’s exhausted, but thrumming with tension. He’s been thorough; he has. He doesn’t need to check again. He holds himself perfectly still, willing his anxiety to just go away, but it doesn’t. He has to be absolutely sure.

 

Dean double checks the front door one final time and is dismayed to find the salt line he’d put there earlier in the evening is already broken. He hadn’t noticed that there is a small gap where the wind seeps in beneath the door. Dean grinds his teeth in frustration. He tries hard to ignore the fear pulsing deep in his gut. A gust of strong wind rattles the window; it bellows like a wounded animal. Dean clenches his fists at his side, watching shadows dance across the dimly lit room. Anything could come for them. The house is completely exposed and they in turn are exposed in it. Dean couldn’t protect Sam when the shtriga came for him the first time. What would Dean do, if it, or some other monster came for Sam now? Where could they hide? Who could help him? Not Dad, not this time. There’d be no showing up just in time. Dean doesn’t even know where his dad has gone. Dean chews his inner cheek to keep from crying. Sometimes, Dean really hates their father.

 

Lightning flashes high in the clouds, illuminating the small yard and casting ominous shadows across the field of tall grass that butts into it. Seconds later, it’s followed by a loud crash of thunder. It rattles the windows hard enough that Dean worries they might break. The light catches a movement at the edge of the field and the fear he’s been trying so hard to tamp down blooms into full-blown panic. He races up the stairs; he’s already been away from Sam too long. Dean rushes into the bedroom, he shuts the door, locking it, then grabs a chair from the desk by the window and shoves it underneath the handle. He steps away from the door slowly, his eyes never leaving the handle. His body feels like a wire stretched too tautly.

Dean hears Sam slip out of the bed and shuffles beside him.

“Get back in bed, Sammy.”

Sam doesn’t listen, he never does. Sam tugs at Dean’s t-shirt then hands Dean his shotgun. Sam sits down and pulls on Dean’s hand until Dean sits down too, as soon as Dean does Sam crawls into his lap.

They ride out the thunderstorm that way, Sam in Dean’s lap and Dean’s shotgun in Sam’s. Dean watches the door and waits. He’s frightened and he hates himself for it. Dean swallows hard. He’s not going to cry. He’s not a baby. The tears fall anyway. Sam pats his cheek and tries to wipe the tears away, but they won’t stop.

Dean cries and clings to his brother. Resentment blooms in his heart. Suddenly, he doesn’t know what he hopes for more: that their dad returns soon or that he never come back.

 

~~~

Dean wakes to find Sam hovering over him. He pokes Dean’s side hard with his toe then points to his stomach, which growls loudly. Dean rubs his eyes and sits up. Sam nudges him again.

“All right.” Dean grouses.

 

The kitchen is as foreign to Dean as the rest of the house. They’ve been in the house almost two weeks. He’s watched his father navigate the kitchen (glowered silently as John placed meal after meal before him, but never served Sam and refused to acknowledge the defeated expression that crossed his Dad’s face whenever Dean would pass his plate to Sam instead)  and anyway,  it’s not like Dean doesn’t know how to cook. It was one of the first things he remembers learning to do. He remembers mixing formula and heating it in pan of warm water. Remembers learning the hard way, how to use the stovetop and oven. (He has the burn scars to prove it.) He’s an expert at using the microwave. But, this? He has no idea what to do with a kitchen that looks like something out of a science fiction movie. Dean avoids the stove and opts for something simpler, raiding the pantry instead. Dean pours himself and Sam a bowl of cereal and once again wonders what the hell they’re doing in a place like this.

Sam glances up at him as he takes a too big bite of cereal then quirks an eyebrow and looks around the kitchen.

“I know,” Dean mutters. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing ever since we got here.”

Sam chews thoughtfully then scrunches his face as if he’s tasted something bitter.

“Maybe, Dad did a job for them.” Even as he says it, Dean knows it’s not true. He has no idea how his dad would know someone with enough money to afford a place like this.

Sam taps the edge of his square bowl with his spoon.

“Yeah, I guess it is weird.” Weird, though, seems to be the standard these days. Dean drops his spoon into his bowl; he’s lost his appetite. Sam watches him, waiting for him to elaborate. Dean bites his lower lip and swallows his words. There is no point of sharing his worries with Sammy. No point in saying that this house, this seclusion is just one more strange and inexplicable thing in the long list of strange things their father has done since that night in Wisconsin. The night they’d nearly lost Sam.

“Hey,” Dean says instead. “Want to check out the yard when you’re done?”

Sam grins and nods, milk dribbles out from between his lips and Dean wipes it away.

“You’re such a goober.” He teases. Sam lets him know exactly how he feels about that by showing Dean the half-chewed contents of his mouth. “Gross, dude.”

Sam grins mischievously and resumes eating his cereal.

~~~

Dean has just fallen asleep when he’s roused by the front door crashing open. He scrambles out of bed, grabs his shotgun and heads for the door.

“Stay here!” He orders Sam. He opens the break-action and lowers the barrel to make sure it’s loaded then closes the break. The shotgun is usually loaded with rock salt, but ever since the attack in Wisconsin, Dean has been loading it with real shells. More noise erupts from the downstairs whatever is in the house, has moved into the kitchen.

Sam grabs Dean’s knife from beneath the pillow and nods his understanding.

 

Dean cautiously opens the door and peeks down the hallway to the top of the stairs. Another crash echoes through the house. He makes his way down the hall slowly, keeping close to wall to avoid being seen from downstairs. The passageway in front of the bedrooms can easily be seen from the ground floor. There’s no wall on that side only a rail with glass beneath it. He makes it to the stairs and pauses a moment. Maybe he shouldn’t do this. Maybe he should go back, grab Sammy and run. But. What would they do then? Dean’s ten years old; how’s he going to be able to take care of Sam and himself? Where would they go? Would Dad be mad if he ran away, instead of fighting? Fear, familiar and paralyzing, bubbles in his gut. Would he even care? No. Dean can’t think like that. Their dad loves them. He’s taught Dean what to do. Dean takes a deep breath and strengthens his resolve. He can do this. HE CAN. He can protect Sammy.

 

Dean moves tentatively down the steps, until the front door comes into view. It’s wide open; blood trails from the threshold off towards the kitchen. A lot of blood. Whatever is in the house, it’s already badly hurt. Hope blooms in Dean’s heart. Hurt things are much easier to kill. He makes his way down the stairs and follows the trail of blood to the darkened kitchen. From where he’s crouched at the entryway, he can see a dark shape hovering over the sink. It hisses and growls in pain, as it runs water over its arm. Dean doesn’t hesitate. The angle isn’t great and the large island blocks part of his view. He jumps into a standing position and in doing so gives away his position. The dark form turns around quickly. Its eyes flashing yellow in the dim light. The sight of them startles Dean. He hesitates for only a second, but it’s long enough for the form to realize it’s about to be shot. It dives as Dean pulls the trigger, landing with a loud thud on the floor.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” The form shouts. Dean instantly recognizes the voice. Dread seizes him. It’s his dad. He almost shot his dad.  
“Don’t just stand there,” John mutters. “Help me up.”

Dean flicks the lights on. His father is struggling to get himself into a seated position. He’s cradling his left arm, a gash on his forehead is dripping blood all over the black tiled floors. Dean takes a step then stops, remembering the yellow glowing eyes.

“Goddamn it, Dean. Don’t make me ask you again.” The thread of cold anger in his father’s voice spurs him to action. Dean helps settle him against the cabinets. The pockmarked cabinets beside John show just how close Dean came to hitting him. He’d be dealing with calling an ambulance for his dad, if it wasn’t for the island in the middle of kitchen. It provided John enough cover to keep him from getting hurt.

His Dad catches him looking, but doesn’t ask why Dean loaded his shotgun with live ammo. Part of Dean is glad. The other part bristles at the wrongness of not having John call him out for breaking the rules.

“Help me to living room,” His dad instructs and Dean readily obeys. Dad groans as he stands. He’s leaning on Dean; it’s uncomfortable. It hurts. Dean doesn’t dare say so.

 

They walk slowly through the kitchen and into the living room. Sam is sitting on the bottom step; the knife still clutched in his hand. He looks to their dad then back at Dean and shrugs his shoulders.

“I don’t know, Sammy.”

His dad stops abruptly, turning his gaze towards Sam. His dad’s whole body tenses, as he looks to Dean.

“You should go back to bed. I’ll help Dad, okay?” Dean pleads, hoping Sam won’t choose this moment to argue. He can feel his dad’s angry glare on him. The last thing he wants is for Sam to be anywhere near them when Dad starts lighting into Dean. Sam nods then rushes up the stairs, shooting their father a final weary glance as he goes.

Dad clutches Dean’s shoulder and jerks Dean towards him. “What are you doing?”

 

Dean flinches. The vehemence is his father’s tone is nearly as frightening as his wrathful expression. Dad’s face twists with emotion, his eyes dark and foreboding. Dean remembers the yellow eyes. It’s take everything inside Dean not to scream, not to yank himself out of his dad’s grip and run.

“We talked about this, Dean.” He squeezes Dean’s shoulder tightly. Dean can’t help the whimper that escapes his pressed lips. “Your brother is gone. He’s gone; you understand me?”

Dad’s words snap him out of his stupor. His dad would never say something like that. He’d never pretend Sammy wasn’t right here with them. He wouldn’t have left them, defenseless in the middle of nowhere. He wouldn’t hurt them. Dean does pull away then. He breaks his dad’s hold and stumbles back, landing hard on his butt. He scrambles up quickly and heads for the stairs.

 “Christo!” Dean yells once he’s half-way up the stairs.

The thing in his father’s skin blanches and stumbles backward. In the dim lighting, Dean sees his eyes flash then turn dark. He doesn’t wait; doesn’t question what he’s seen. He runs up the stairs. It calls after him, but Dean ignores it. He rushes into bedroom, nearly running into Sam who is standing guard just inside the doorway.

 

“Get in the storage space.” Sam doesn’t question his instruction. He grabs a pillow off the bed and scampers into the small storage space they’d discovered behind the bunk bed. Dean locks the door, shoves the chair beneath the handle and crawls in beside Sam. They can hear the thing stomping up the stairs. Sam buries his face in Dean’s shoulder. The thing bangs repeatedly on the door.

 

“Let me in Dean.”

 

It sounds so calm, so much like his dad. It makes Dean wonder if maybe he’s wrong, if he made a mistake. It’s just his dad and his dad would never hurt them. He rises, ready to exit, but Sam clutches his arm. His fingers are ice-cold.

 

“Don’t.” Sam breathes, the word is barely audible. Sam says it with tremendous effort; his voice sounds strange and far away.

 

The thing rattles the door handle then thumps heavily against the door, as it tries to force it open. “Dean! Open this goddamn door!” The walls vibrate with the force of the thing’s pounding.

 

Dean settles back into the small space, sick of doubting himself, of being afraid. Sam was right to stop him. Dean had almost let it in; almost let it get Sammy.

 

Sam presses tightly into Dean’s side. Dean wraps his arm around Sam, pulling him in even more tightly. His skin is cool and dry. Dean makes a note to bundle Sam up better. It’s always cold in the house.

“It’s okay, Sammy.” Dean murmurs, kissing the top of Sam’s head. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” He repeats over and over, as if saying it will protect them, will make it so.

 

~~~

 

Dean slides the door to the storage space open and peeks out into the room. Daylight streams in through the bedroom window, soft and muted light that belies the horror of the previous night. Dean hadn’t slept, too terrified to let down his guard for even one second. The thing had remained at the door for what seemed like hours. It coaxed and cajoled, begged forgiveness in one breath then admonished him in next. It was broken and furious and the more it talked the less Dean wondered if there was any of his father left inside that thing. His dad would never apologize or compromise. They did what dad said, no questions asked. They didn’t need to know or understand why.

Dean clears the bed then stands and stretches. Every single bone is his body pops as they try to rearrange themselves into place. Sam stretches too, rounding his stretching out with a tremendous yawn. Sam glances at the door then at Dean.

 

“I don’t know.” Dean rifles through the small study desk for his remaining ammunition. He doesn’t think bullets can hurt a demon, but maybe they can slow it down.  He cracks the shotgun then loads it.

Sam crosses his arms and watches Dean warily.

“I have to do something.” Dean grabs his duffel bag and pulls out his flask of holy water.

Sam shakes his head then points to the phone.

“He won’t believe us.”

Sam nods emphatically.

“He’s too far away. Uncle Bobby can’t help us.”

Sam points at the phone again.

“Fine,” Dean growls. He picks up the phone, but instead of a dial tone, he hears the thing’s voice. Dean covers the receiver and puts a finger to his lips to silence Sam.

 

_I don’t know what the hell to do, Bobby._

 

Dean pales at the mention of Uncle Bobby’s name. He shoots a worried look at Sam. Sam pats Dean’s back reassuringly then sits down on the bed.

 

_You’ve got to give him time, John._

_It’s been months._ The thing sounds miserable. Dean can feel the emotion in his words. It makes his mad, the thing pretending it cares, trying to fool their Uncle Bobby. _I thought coming here. Being away from everything would help, but…_

 _I told you; the last thing that poor boy needs is to be even more isolated._ He’s trying not to sound like it, but Dean can tell Uncle Bobby is angry. _It’s enough, John. Pack up and come stay with me._

_I can’t. I have a lead…_

_A lead? This is your son. You already lost Sam; you going to lose him too?_

 

Uncle Bobby’s right. Sam maybe little but he already thinks they shouldn’t live the way they do. He doesn’t understand why they can’t be like all the other kids. Have a Mom and a house and not move all the time or live in motel rooms. Dean knows what his dad does is important, but he sometimes wonders too. It’s hard for Dean to admit, but almost losing Sammy, being blamed for not protecting him, it tore at the respect, at some of the love he feels for his dad, because if they didn’t hunt, if they didn’t move all the damn time and live in crappy motels, the shtriga would have never come for Sam in first place.

 The thing breathes heavily on the line, but doesn’t answer.

  _You do what you need to, but I’m done waiting for you to handle this. I’ll be there in a couple of hours to get Dean._

The things doesn’t respond. His breath rattles on the line.

 _He’s_ **my** _son._ It growls, but Uncle Bobby has already hung up.

 Dean carefully replaces receiver. “Uncle Bobby’s coming for us.”

 Sam looks to the door again.

 “We’re getting out of here, Sammy. I promise. I’m not letting that thing keep us here.”

 

~~~

Dean presses his ear to the door. It’s been a couple of hours since the thing’s conversation with Uncle Bobby. They’re thirsty and Sam’s stomach keeps rumbling. He listens, but doesn’t hear anything. He peers through the gap beneath the door, from what he can see the hallway is clear. Dean stands, grabs the shotgun and digs two bundles of utility cord  out of his duffel. They carry plenty of weapons in the Impala, but Dean’s made sure to have his own small stash with him since Wisconsin. Sam crawls back into the storage space, grabs his knife off the floor and moves to back Dean’s side.

 

“No, Sammy. You stay here.”

Sam shakes his head.

“You’re too little. I don’t want you to get hurt.” Dean pleads. His stomach rolls at the thought of the thing hurting Sam.

“No.” Sam says in a surprisingly deep voice. It takes Dean aback. Sam doesn’t sound like a little boy, but a grown man. A warning flares at the back of Dean’s mind, but is quickly silenced when Sam wraps Dean up in a tight hug. Sam tips his head up and looks into Dean’s eyes. There is so much devotion and trust in that one look. It makes Dean feel invincible.

“Okay.” Dean nods, pulling out of Sam’s hug. “We do it together, but you gotta do what I tell you. No arguing.”  

Sam nods and crosses his heart.

 ~~~

 The thing sleeps like the dead. More proof this couldn’t be their father. Their father wakes at the drop of a pin. Sam and Dean skulk into the master bedroom. The thing has pulled the curtains shut, but sunlight still filters in through the small gaps left behind. The thing is sprawled on the bed. It has no shirt on; its body is littered with black, blue, red bruises. The gash is super glued together and one of its eyes is swollen shut. It has a split lip, Dean hadn’t noticed the night before. Sam tugs Dean’s t-shirt and draws his attention to the nightstand. One of Dad’s prescription bottles (the label says Codeine, but Dean knows his Dad keeps all different kinds of things in it) and a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam sit atop Dad’s open journal. It’s a little too dark to make out all of Dad’s chicken scratch, but one word jumps out at Dean (it’s underlined and heavily lined, as if his dad traced the word repeatedly): poltergeist.

 Dean shoots Sam a questioning glance and shrugs. Was their dad trying to tell them something? Is this what’s taken over him? Dean shakes it off. He’s not sure if ghosts can possess people, but he knows demons can. His dad told Uncle Bobby he had a lead. That’s why he’d gone. The only leads Dad chases, Dean reasons, are of the demon that killed his mom. Dean’s heard enough stories to know that once a demon gets inside a person that person is never coming back. They might live, but they’ll never be same. He looks down at the sleeping thing, still and unmoving. If it wasn’t for the fact Dean can see the rise and fall of its chest, he might think the thing was already dead.

Sam presses up close beside him in silent reassurance. Dean hands Sam one of the bundles of utility cord. “Let’s do this.”

 

The thing wakes in a flurry of movement, yanking hard on the cord that binds its wrists and ankles. Its muscles cord with effort as it pulls and pulls at the neat bowman’s knots Dean and Sam have used to secure it to the wooden bed frame. The wood creaks with each pull of the bindings. Dean and Sam watch silently from the doorway as it thrashes jerking the bed hard enough to make it shake. Its body bows up with effort as it screams for Dean. It doesn’t even seem to realize Dean is there. It rages, screaming at Dean to untie him. Dean stands paralyzed, watching the thing that used to be his dad, twist and contort its body as it seeks to escape. Its admonishments and curses ring in his ears. He feels the familiar pinprick of impending tears and levels the shotgun at the thing, determined not to show fear, to show how much those words spilling from his dad’s mouth (even if it’s not really his dad saying them) hurts him.

 “Shut up.” Dean warns. It ignores him and continues to demands to be let go. It warns Dean he’s making a mistake. Calls him confused and messed up. Tells him he has to stop this insanity, stop talking to his dead brother. Sam whimpers. He covers his ears, curls into himself and begins to cry. Anger surges through Dean. No one hurts his brother. He stomps into the room, straight to the bedside. He’s close, but still out of reach.

 “Shut up!” Dean yells. The things mindless rage becomes laser focused on him. It voice crackles with fury as it demands Dean set him loose. Dean doesn’t waste any more time. He pulls the flask from his back pocket, steps in closer, but only far enough for him to dump the contents in the demon’s face. It roars and shakes his head. Questions what Dean thinks he’s doing and one more time calls for Dean to let him go. It lunges at Dean and Dean runs back to the safety of the doorway, knocking into the nightstand and spilling the bottle of whiskey onto the bed as he goes.

Eventually, as the things screams out his name over and over, sounding less possessed and more like their dad by the minute, Dean’s resolve starts to weaken. He knows if he has to stand and there and listen to it any longer, he’ll cave. He’ll set the thing loose, because there is some part of him that still hopes their dad is in there somewhere. So he gathers Sam up and drags him with him as he runs out of the house. Even in the yard, he can still hear his dad’s pleas.

 

Dean plops down onto the warm grass. The heat feels so good after being in the cold house. He sits then lays down on his side. Sam lays down beside him.

 “That’s not Dad.” Dean assures him. Sam nods and wipes his nose.

“Love you, De.” Sam whispers, his voice staticky like an old record.

“Love you too, Sammy.”

Dean closes his eyes, the sun filtering through his closed lids red and gold like fire. An idea flickers to life in Dean’s mind. He sits up, but before he can even open his mouth, Sam nods and whispers quietly, “Fire kills everything.”

 

~~~

Dean pours the gasoline carefully. The gas can his dad keeps in the trunk is only two gallons. He wants to be sure every steps of the carpeted stairs is soaked enough to catch quickly. If the demon escapes (and Dean doesn’t think it will. It’s been silent for a while now which Dean hopes means it’s either passed out or given up trying to get free), Dean needs to be sure the fire will build quickly enough to keep the demon trapped upstairs until Uncle Bobby arrives. He empties the entire can then adds the contents of a bottle of lighter fluid he finds beneath the kitchen sink.

 

Gas fumes fill the house. The stench makes him light headed. He’s exhausted and hungry and isn’t sure how much more he can take. Sam takes Dean’s hand with his right while at the same time handing him their dad’s lighter with his left.

“Where’d you get this?”

Sam nods to where dad’s jacket lays in a pile on the ground. The thing had taken it off the night before when Dean helped it into the living room. Dean flips the cap of the silver Zippo open several times, but doesn’t light it. He turns to Sam to praise him for a job well done when a crash from the master bedroom where the demon is secured, booms through the house. Dean lets Sam’s hand drop and yells at him to go.

 “Dean!” The thing screams from the bedroom.

 Dean holds the lit Zippo to the gas soaked carpet. It catches as the thing appears at the top of the stairs. In his mind, Dean thought he’d light the step and the rest would catch fire in one big swoop, but it seems like forever until the fire truly takes hold. The thing gasps then recoils when it notices the flames. It had stumbled out into walkway, on legs that seemed to barely hold it. From where he stands at the bottom of the stairs, Dean can clearly see the raw rope burns on its wrists and ankles. He has no idea how the thing could have gotten loose.

“Jesus Christ! What the hell are you doing?!” The thing cries from where it hovers at the top of stairs.

Dean didn’t think demons could say Christ’s name, but maybe it’s only the Latin version they can’t use. He backs away from the burgeoning fire and bumps right into Sam.

 Dean whirls at him. “Sam? I told you to go!”

Sam calmly shakes his head.

 “Dean, listen to me.” The thing instructs from the top of the stairs. “It’s not too late to fix this. I’m not mad, I promise. There’s a fire extinguisher in the kitchen. Just go get it.  I know you’re confused.”

Sam rolls his eyes.

“I know you miss you brother; I’m sorry for what I said. Let’s just take care of this before it gets more out of control.”

Dean shakes his head in disbelief.

“Shut up! Stop pretending! You’re not him! You’re not my dad!”

 

The fire flares, rushing up the stairs towards the thing with purpose. Smoke begins to fill the room; the heat from the flames feels like the worst sunburn Dean's ever had. Flames climb the wall and lick up to the ceiling. They have to go. Now. Dean grabs Sam’s hand and runs to the front door. The thing bellows his name. Dean pulls at the door, but it won’t open. He grabs onto the handle tightly and with all of his remaining strength does his best to yank it open, but the door won’t budge.

  
“Sam help me!” He pleads. Sam takes a step back. He frowns, his eyes brimming with tears and shakes his head.

 ~~~

 Dean watches Uncle Bobby speak with the fat policeman and one of the firefighters. Even from the safety of the backseat of Uncle Bobby’s car, Dean can see he’s upset. Dean wishes he could rush out and tell Uncle Bobby that they’re okay, that they made it out and that the demon is dead, but he knows he can’t. He has to wait until they police are gone. Police officers mean questions. Dean can’t explain any of it to someone who is not a hunter without sounding crazy. Even he can hardly believe any of it was real.

He watches the firefighters as they attempt to douse the flames. The house is fully engulfed by the fire. Dean feels a small tinge of regret, but knows he did what he had to. He did what his dad would have wanted; he protected Sammy.

Dean leans back into the seat. He’s beyond tired and doesn’t know he’ll able be able to bear the weight of all that’s happened in his short life. He’s lost his dad and his mom, and even the Impala, but at least he still has the one person who truly matters. Dean wraps his arm around Sam’s shoulder.

 “It’s just you and me now. You and me,” he repeats quietly.

“Always,” Sam says and takes Dean’s scorched hand in his shriveled own.


End file.
